


For How Do I Hold Thee But By Thy Granting?

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Sorry Mr. Shakespeare I'm A Fan), Background Macbeth, Drinking, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Plagiarizing From Your Demonic Drinking Buddy/Lowkey Patron, Poetry, Wedding Planning, assumed one-sided pining, plays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: Words have always come easy to him, particularly with his feelings about Aziraphale. It's really too bad that the angel in question isn't here to hear him.Well, not for Crowley, at this moment. He'd probably combust if he heard him right now. But too bad for both of them in the long run, because it made their pining last another four hundred years.Someone does hear him, though, and soon Sonnet 87 comes around to haunt him.AKA: This Hurt Me To Write.Written for Day One of Ineffable Husbands Week (yes it's still day one where I live so it counts oof)





	For How Do I Hold Thee But By Thy Granting?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day One of the Ineffable Husbands Week, "dancing/music/poetry"  
I chose "Poetry"!  
Reading Sonnet 87 isn't strictly _necessary_ to get this, but I highly recommend it. It's a really good poem on it's own, and it really feels like something these two celestial nerds would think about each other. 
> 
> Fun fact! There's actually a really strong movement that speculates that Shakespeare wasn't the one who actually wrote his works, but some hack who stole them from a noble poet who had to hide their identity for some reason. I don't buy that, but I decided to play with the show's version of Shakespeare as a genuinely gifted writer, occasionally going through lapses in popularity, who also hears some weirdos spewing poetry and is like, "huh, maybe I can use that." I like to think, for this fic, that he's thinking of someone himself, or putting himself in Crowley's shoes and writing from his perspective.

“Witches!” Will wailed. “How’m I supposed to juggle all of this! Every time I’m about to put the blasted quill to parchment, I can’t help but worry that it’s not _ witchy _ enough!” He slammed back his drink. “And if it’s _ too _ witchy, then I fear he’ll get paranoid that there isn’t enough…ugh, what’s the…? _ Righteousness_! I swear, I haven’t felt such a fearful strife within me since _ Romeo and Juliet’s _ ending!”

Crowley, meanwhile, swirled the liquid in his own mug disparagingly. 

“Please, you’ll figure it out. Just from what you’ve been telling me, you have a solid start.”

“You really think so?” And there’s such a devastating look in the drunken playwright’s eyes, a look so familiar to Crowley, that he couldn't bear to face it. Not in the state he was in, anyway. He turned back to his cup. 

“Just once, a nice wine. Just once, Bill, I don’t ask for too much,” he muttered morosely. 

Will snorted. “Tell you what, if _ Macbeth _ can…can attract the eye of London to the Globe, I’ll buy you the whole damned bottle, there.” He gestured to behind the bar, sloshing his beer over the lip of his mug. 

Crowley felt his spirits lift marginally (even with the absence of a few other spirits, both alcoholic and other, that he was sorely missing) as he recalled how easy that task had been the first time. With great trepidation, like gently bringing out the portrait of a missing lover and trying desperately to remain calm enough not to weep all over the canvas, he thought of the memory of an angel. He could see him there, in his ruff, his hair a halo in the sunlight, beaming at the promise of _ Hamlet _ filling the theatre. 

Aziraphale never did come back down to see it's success, though. Crowley had received a letter, saying that the job in Edinburgh was done (in such a dramatic fashion that Crowley likes to think that Aziraphale really enjoys doing the occasional tempting, or at the very least playing the role of a tempter. He could see him whispering about how little those cows in that clan will be missed, how _easy_ it would be to steal them, into the ear of a clan leader), but he hadn’t heard from the angel since then. He knew he was fine, otherwise he’d feel a sharp pulling in his chest towards the source of danger and not a steadily-written, seven-paged letter; but still. Nothing since then, and the silence was making Crowley simultaneously too anxious and too sad to do anything really productive. Some nights, he wished he won that coin toss, because if then at least Aziraphale would appreciate his handiwork with Hamlet, because he would have done the miracle anyway. Scotland or no Scotland, he would’ve caved to those blessed puppy-eyes. 

He didn’t want to think about any of that now, though. Now was for drinking with fairly popular playwrights and making promises about launching a play about witchcraft and regicide to idolization.

“Challenge accepted,” he said. 

They clinked their mugs together to finalize it, yet it had none of the promise that Crowley was accustomed to. The ring of it was hollow, a mere shadow of what it could be. 

The funny thing about alcohol, even the cheap beer that William was passing off as a delicious beverage this week, was that when he drank enough, he became a little easier to read. Not much, mind, it was never really safe for a demon to fully let down his defences, but amongst friends? In a tiny pub in a harsh and vile city that he eagerly claimed as his own? Yeah, there must’ve been some of that desperate and inescapable swell of emotions in his face. The next thing he knew was that Bill’s look had softened considerably. Behind all the gloss of inebriation, there was sympathy in his eyes. 

“Something’s on your mind,” he pointed out. “Is it that, uh, dear companion of yours that you’ve been telling me so much about?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley admitted, because fuck it. He had developed an unfortunate taste for honesty and how else should he indulge it except along with his other vices? “Yeah, he’s gone away for a bit, sent travelling for work.”

“When is he due to return?” 

“That’s, uh. That’s the thing. I’m not sure he is coming back. I don’t think his superiors really approve of my influence in his life.” Crowley discreetly made the liquid in his cup stronger, taking a generous gulp for courage. “And if I’m being honest, anyway, I don’t think he does either. Or, he shouldn’t, anyway. I hope he doesn’t, for his own sake, but he might, because I don’t even think he realizes how much more he’s worth than I am.” 

“Oh, come now. Why do you say that?”

“He’s just...he’s good! He’s good in so many ways! Impossibly clever, and witty. He’s kind and, and sweet, and giving, and caring, just _ good _ ! But, like, fun good! He’s not above a bit of tempting or lying and that’s just so much fun to see in an...uh, an _ upstanding man _ like him, and he still somehow talks to me despite it being a _ terrible _ idea. I mean, sure, he’s a touch judgey and yes, he can be spiteful sometimes, and I have no clue what’s going on in his head, but that just makes him even better. He’s all the best bits of Heaven without the lofty distance or cruelty, and he doesn’t deserve to be touched by a devil like me.”

“Cruelty?”

“Don’t even get me started on the Flood, Bill.”

“Right. I beg you, continue.” 

“He’s just so wonderful, and I…I miss him, but I don’t wanna miss him.”

“You don’t?”

“No. No, no, I don’t want to. If I miss him, that means that I have feelings for him. And I can’t have feelings for him, because he deserves so much more than that. I mean, for Sa -- _ ugh _! And I want him to have feelings for me, I want it more than anything else in the world but, I…”

“But?” Bill was on the edge of his seat now, rapt with attention. His eyes were wide and his hands trembled.

“In any case, if either of us feels anything more than animosity, we’re both doomed. Him doubly so because he’s in a much stricter job than I am. So, Bill, looks like the subject of my affections, the dear guardian of my heart, my angel and my muse, it’s never gonna be anything more.” 

Bill sat back. 

“Dear friend,” he said. His voice was heavy with sympathy and awe. He must’ve sobered up some at the story, he always was a sop for romance, since he sat a little straighter, a glint in his eyes. “Run away with him, you have the funds for it! No one will question two brave nobles such as yourselves! Fly, and do write me of all your travels, so that I may capture them in my own plays.” 

Crowley snorted. The words were an echo of his own thoughts for eons, now. “You’re drunk.” 

“_In vino veritas_!”

“Yea, and _ in aqua sanitas_. I ought to cut you off. Married man, and a father, encouraging elopement in all but name like that.”

“My tongue speaks what your heart knows.”

“And what of it? Look, if it were that simple, I’d have done it ages ago. We’d be hiding in the charming Messina you’ve written so highly of, acting like Benedict and Beatrice till kingdom come. No, we don’t get out that easy.” 

Bill hummed, then stood, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder as he left. “I’ll fetch us some dinner, you look _ anhungry_.” 

“That’s never gonna catch on,” he called after him.

Bill merely shot a grin behind him as he wedged his way through the crowd and to the bar. Crowley turned his eyes back to his drink. 

Something about hanging out with poets always made him a little too sentimental, a little too prone to turning his feelings into complicated strings of prose in order to make them more understandable. Or, barring that, making them easier to put away. He could convince himself, or try to, that they were just words. Just words from someone lovesick, not himself, maybe he cribbed them from Bill, Kit, or Ben. He wasn’t feeling them, they were just away from him. 

But it was all true. Aziraphale was either sent away by Heaven itself, or was travelling of his own volition. Either way, he was doing what angels ought to: not engaging with demons beyond a practical Arrangement. Yeah, it was all Crowley’s idea to begin with, sure, but still -- every so often, a wave of realization hits him, cold and dreadful, that Aziraphale could Fall for this. He could Fall and be filled with the same background bitterness that Crowley was filled with. 

Could he still love Aziraphale then? Aziraphale was good in a beautiful, impure and flawed way. He was a bit of a bastard, and a little slow on the uptake despite all his intelligence, but he was also the angel -- _ the _ , singular, no other angel in existence tried this and none ever will -- who shielded a demon from the rain for no other reason than it was wet, cold, and a touch uncomfortable. Would he lose that brightness if he Fell? And if that was the case, how _ could _ Aziraphale love Crowley? He didn’t have any of his optimism, or his gentleness, or his kindness. He didn’t even amount to half of that worth, even on a good day. Would he be worthier of his affections if he was an angel, still? It would be a mistake to give his heart to Crowley, one that Aziraphale couldn’t afford to make. He had tried his best to make himself as genuine and un-tempting to Aziraphale as possible, except when it was to get him to admit to liking things or living a little. But making people feel things that they didn’t actually feel always made him nauseous to think about, and Aziraphale was the shining, golden example of this. He wouldn’t even dream of tempting him into liking him, but he was still kept awake on the nights he actually wanted to sleep by the fear that Aziraphale was only hanging around him due to some subconscious demonic influence. 

All of that was assuming that Aziraphale loved him at all, enough for him to get caught and Fall, which he _ shouldn’t _ . _ Didn’t _ , and most certainly _ shouldn’t _. Crowley tried desperately to explain away all the longing looks, sweet words, and the prolonged contact that he caught from Aziraphale when he thought Crowley wouldn’t notice. Forget all the ways in which Aziraphale tried to make him feel special, even amongst all these interesting humans who didn’t have Hell as a part of his baggage. It was a bad idea for the angel, more than for Crowley. Crowley knew all about suffering, knew what it was like to Fall from Her Grace, and he wouldn’t wish it on Aziraphale even if it meant going through it a hundred times more himself. It was painful beyond imagination, completely scorching the soul and leaving nothing behind but tender wounds and twisted limbs. It was lonely, the feeling of being isolated from all you held dear, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel that if Aziraphale hadn’t come along, he’d still feel a bitter sense of being crushed and paralyzed at the bottom of a very dark, very deep, very inaccessible pit. He couldn’t go through that, it would destroy him. 

He murmurs, quietly: 

“_ Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, _

_ And like enough thou know'st thy estimate. _

_ For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? _”

He doesn’t notice Bill’s wide-eyed stare behind him as he committed the words to memory.

* * *

He doesn’t ever get blackout drunk. He doesn’t let himself, it just seems to defeat the purpose. He always remembers everything he does and says when he’s drunk, because he steadily refuses to do anything that will embarrass him, and he always wants a record of who was nearby when he’s at his most vulnerable. Evil never sleeps, and all that. 

So when he eventually gets around to looking at Sonnet 87, he’s not sure whether he should be proud of his influence or upset at the sight of his own words staring up at him. 

He sets aside the quarto. Inscribed on the first page is a thank you from Bill, presumably including plagiarising his words, and Crowley is just too tired to think too much on it. 

Before this, Crowley learnt that _Macbeth_ _did_ turn out to be a success, and he was glad for it regardless of all his usual feelings. He isn’t much of a fan, it’s a bloody and miserable tragedy and that never really settled well with him, but people enjoy it. He managed to count it as a win through some clever justification and enough emphasis on his reputation. 

Moreover, as he exited the Globe that afternoon, he saw a figure, decked in white, waiting. 

Seeing the way his face lit up, the Sun fitting itself neatly into the corporation of an angel, Crowley realized that Aziraphale was waiting for _ him _.

Of course, he tried to shut it down quickly, his eyes quickly darting away and his mouth turning down into a neutral expression. He busied himself in buying some fruit from a street vendor as Crowley sauntered closer. He didn’t bother suppressing his own grin or the lightness in his steps. 

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly, for Aziraphale’s sake more than his own. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t catch the play, did you?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied warmly, the word melting Crowley’s heart. “Just got in, I’m afraid. I was planning on going to tomorrow’s. How have you been?” 

“Eh, you know,” he shrugged. “Kept the temptations here for a bit. Not hard, lotta cutthroats and ruffians amongst the theatre crowd. Been a bit of a vacation, actually, I’m really enjoying London.”

“Wonderful! That’s good, I’m happy for you. Well, obviously, I oppose the temptations, I have to, but, well…”

“Mm,” Crowley offered as an out. Aziraphale took it, gratefully.

“Anyway, I’ve been…Heavens, everywhere. It seems like I’ve been given one assignment after another for the past few years. I’m glad for the break. I did miss this place, though. I have a good feeling about London, for now at least.”

“London _ could _ use some good deeds,” he suggested, mildly. Then, because he knows Aziraphale’s interest in the playwright currently taking a bow, “Particularly around Shakespeare’s crowd.” 

Aziraphale nodded, enthusiasm in his eyes. “How fortunate!” Then he gestured primly down the road. “It’s been awhile, dear boy, allow me to treat you to dinner while we catch up.”

"Lead the way," he said, following him to a small restaurant. 

He spent the rest of the evening in deep conversation, warmed by the company like a snake on a rock. He kept a close and longing eye on Aziraphale's hands, wanting nothing more than to reach out and hold them. 

He stuffed his mouth with bread to prevent voicing any of this.

* * *

He’s almost forgotten about the Sonnet. Or, okay, it’s difficult to forget one of your friends stealing your words when you’re spilling your heart out, but it’s something he doesn’t dwell on. It’s a funny anecdote that he tells no one because the only person who’d believe him is also the only person Crowley wouldn’t tell in a million years, if the second Apocalypse didn’t come sooner. 

The two of them had plenty of conversations about Shakespeare, being in their top-ten list of favourite playwrights and mutual friends. They spoke about the meaning of every line he wrote at length, even the Sonnets, and yet they both slid past 87. It was just one that neither really wanted to talk about. Crowley assumed that Aziraphale could see his discomfort the first time it came up, from a young intellectual they were speaking with, and wisely changed the topic to _The Tempest_. The grateful look Crowley sent him must've sealed it: Aziraphale knew which conversations weren't up for prying. 

But soon, somehow, it’s irrelevant. Aziraphale and him swapped places for their intended executions, then they made out, then they went to dinner and toasted to their newfound freedom to live and love, and now they’re planning their wedding. It’s something he’d been dreaming about for so long, and finally, he’s able to talk freely to his angel about it. 

They’ve been toying with the idea with _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ as a theme ever since they caught a showing of it last month. Obviously, any sacred ground was out, so they were free to get creative with the setting, and why not a forest? The guest list would be sparse, anyway, most of their friends this century being acquaintances due to the amount of time they spent raising Warlock and worrying about the Apocalypse during their free moments. In truth, all they needed was each other, and Crowley positively _ revelled _ in all these opportunities to be cheesy with Aziraphale. The first time that Aziraphale told him that it didn’t matter what they got married in, so long they did get married, he almost melted right on the spot. 

Somehow, however, the Sonnets came up. Maybe it was about their vows, or the music. But in any case, Aziraphale brought up blessed number 87. 

“You know, it always sort of reminded me of you,” Aziraphale had said.

Crowley nearly dropped the pan that he was holding and, with it, the flambéing vegetables. It was only a quick miracle that repositioned the handle to fit in his fumbling hand that prevented another fire. That led to another moment of stomach-plummeting horror, as a burning bookshop started to appear before his eyes.

Aziraphale had, at some point, hurried over and extinguished the pan, setting it gently down onto the switched-off stove. Crowley set his hands on his arms, gripping them, seeking out Aziraphale’s grounding presence. The angel, understanding, wrapped his arms around him. 

“It’s alright, dear, nothing to fret over. I’m fine, you’re fine, and the pan is cooling as we speak.” He soothingly ran his hands along Crowley’s back. “What happened, what’s wrong? Was it what I said?”

“Um,” he swallowed, regaining his bearings. “How, uh… how does it remind you of me?”

Aziraphale pulled back, just enough to look Crowley in the eyes. The angel’s kaleidoscopic eyes, now mostly hazel, were filled with such a naked vulnerability that Crowley felt incredibly grateful to be able to witness it. 

“My dear,” he breathed. “I don’t even know where to start. Ever since I met you, I've always wondered how you could grace me with your presence. I’ve always admired your freedom, your cunning intelligence. You knew when to push, and when to ease up. You knew me so well, and were so accommodating to all of my limits, and how you always considered my feelings so generously. Your kindness, that you try so hard to pretend doesn’t exist, is so beautiful to me. My dear, you were a beacon of light in an otherwise bleak world when I met you, and you still are. I’ve never met anyone who cares so much, and I couldn’t ask for a better companion on Earth. I’ve always felt like a poor excuse for an angel, but here you are, someone who by all rights ought to be evil, and yet you’re so _ good _.”

“I’m not--”

“You _ are _ .” His eyes were misting up. “You _ are _ so good, and so brave, and I was so _ frightened _, especially then. Heaven had started to look more shrewdly on my miracles for a bit after Scotland, and I couldn’t afford for our Arrangement to be found out. It broke my heart, but I couldn’t bear to think about...what they’d do to you. When I first read the Sonnet, I almost felt like Shakespeare was taking inspiration from me, when we used to talk together and…well, I talked about you, and us. Forgive me, my dear, I kept it vague and did my best not to implicate you in particular, but I always worried that he’d speculate, especially after one.” 

Crowley didn’t find the words just yet, so he gently placed a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, adoring the way he leaned into the touch, trust and love palpable in the air between them.

“Nothing to forgive, angel. I spoke to him, too,” Crowley confessed. “One night, while he was writing _ Macbeth _, I was telling him all about how I felt about you. Aziraphale, it’s no contest. You’re so much better than I --”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale cut him off firmly. “Don’t finish that sentence, because it’s untrue. We _ deserve _ each other, and we _ deserve _ our place on Earth, because we’re _ both _ good. Flawed, but no one is perfect.” Aziraphale raised a hand to caress Crowley’s cheek. 

“But I felt so much, then, that I didn’t deserve you. I thought...well, even if you did love me, it was a dangerous mistake for you, one that you ought to avoid.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew damper still. “I hope you realize that’s untrue, my love.”

“I do,” he said softly. “I do, angel, and you should know that I feel the same.”

“I always have.” Aziraphale sniffed. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Oh, Crowley, I am so, so sorry that --”

“My turn to shush you,” he said. He pressed the finger of his free hand, gently, against his lips. “I know, I always knew, that it was beyond you and me. I had to spend time arguing against hope, angel, the stakes have always been high for us. But we’re here, now.” 

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, looking deep into Crowley’s eyes. 

“Love you too,” Crowley ran his hands through the short, blond curls. 

Once they calmed down, Crowley pulling Aziraphale against his chest and the two of them just taking in each other’s presence, he spoke again.

“You know, he stole the first half from me. Went off to get some roast chicken, then caught me sulking with poetry about…well, feelings,” he finished awkwardly, not wanting to reopen that painful conversation so quickly. 

Instead of giving back into the sadness of their years and years and _ years _ of pining, though, Aziraphale snorted against him. Then, giggled. Actual giggles! That eventually gave way to actual cackling. Crowley rolled his eyes, resting his chin on the crown of his head, which was shaking with laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, how _ hilarious _ , a demon stolen from while he’s busy pining, I _ am _ aware of the irony.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale gasped. “Dear, not that. I’m laughing because -- my dear, where do you think the last lines came from?”

Crowley moved his head back, staring at the angel. “No way,” he said.

“God as my witness, I took him to lunch after I saw the play myself, and we ended up talking again. I think I must’ve felt pretty bold, because I just completely let all my feelings go. Actually, it might’ve been the wine.”

“Hey, he promised _ me _ wine if _ Macbeth _ did well!” 

“Don’t worry, dear, I got it. Anyway, I spoke about you, and, well, I distinctly remember saying, pertaining to some dreams -- no, I wasn’t sleeping, I mean some wishes -- I had;

_ Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, _

_ In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. _”

“Oh, _ angel _,” Crowley said, then gently brought him in for a kiss. Aziraphale, the delightful, beautiful bastard that he was, deepened it. It was easy and languid, warm and familiar.

After awhile, they finally parted. 

“Let’s avoid that one,” Crowley said. “For the wedding, I mean. We don’t need a reminder of such sad times then.”

Aziraphale raised his hand, pressing a tender kiss to each knuckle, lingering on the golden band on his ring finger. 

“I couldn’t agree more, love.” 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Another fun fact: apparently, Shakespeare wanted "anhungry" to be a word for hungry, because words ending in "-gry" were too few. I learnt that from my "10 Best Shakespearean Stories Ever!" book, which I read to death when I was a kid and led me into my Shakespeare phase (either that or the illustrated Macbeth and R&J storybooks in my elementary school library, and no, they weren't especially graphic, but yes, they were in spooky watercolours). I like thinking about that.


End file.
